


Irreplaceable

by madamerioulette



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: M/M, Masturbation, Self-Loathing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-18
Updated: 2017-10-18
Packaged: 2019-01-19 04:15:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,656
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12402792
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/madamerioulette/pseuds/madamerioulette
Summary: McCree jerks off with his prosthetic and thinks about Genji.





	Irreplaceable

**Author's Note:**

> Based off this post - https://tastyboygenji.tumblr.com/post/166003891955/mccree-jerks-off-with-his-mechanical-arm-with-his
> 
> and this comic - http://tbgkaru.tumblr.com/post/166509891098/doodled-after-this-post
> 
> and a super huge thanks to tastyboygenji for coming up with this concept that's been eating at me for weeks and allowing me to indulge in writing this ficlet ❤

The abode is filthy and crumbling, but it’s empty, out of the way, and it’ll have to do. A runaway’s respite for a man worth ten million dollars, although one might not think so looking at the slouched figure wrapped up in the corner. Footsteps rustle the dusty roads outside and Jesse McCree glances up from beneath the brim of his hat to watch shadows dance across the way through the smudged window. He doesn’t move, barely makes a sound save for the labored breathing washing off from the adrenaline. It’s ridiculous, almost, that after so many years of being on the run, day in and day out, he still gets high off it like some punk kid twenty years back. He’s nearing thirty-seven and while he’s no old man, he isn’t some spring chicken either.

A habit then, he thinks, from the Blackwatch days and damned if those days weren’t sometimes weeks of blurred adrenaline rushes, back to back missions and overnight stays. Sometimes just a good hard drink would mellow him out, a smoke with the boss outside on the balcony, not talking but occasionally humming along with the tune playing on the radio, a night with Genji -- a lot of luxuries he doesn’t have in this dingy building he’s chosen to wait out his pursuers in. And god what he wouldn’t give for a quality cigarillo right now, a glass of something besides the cheap watered down liquor he’s been downing at in rundown bars. God knows what he’d give to have Genji right about now, squatting down next to him with that telltale sign of a smirk behind his mask, red eyes alight with half amusement, half exasperation. Trouble had followed them everywhere back in the day, and this seemed like the kind of bullshit they’d get into even now. Better yet, McCree thinks of a luxury he knows is far beyond his reach; a bed.

A bed that he remembers was just barely big enough for the two of them to tumble into after a mission, the blood still arush through their veins, breath heavy on Genji’s mask as he presses damp kisses to it. The contrast of cool metal hands between warmer silicon pads riding up his shirt in an effort to pull it up and over, another dancing at his waistline, tapping teasingly on his belt buckle loud enough for Jesse to hear and tell him to hurry, don’t tease, don’t --

McCree’s gloved hand presses down on the front of his chaps right beneath the belt that digs into his waistline a little. He chuckles to himself, half groaning as he settles his head on the wall behind him, pulling his hat over his face as if he were ashamed at even the thought. The thought being getting off in some filthy abandoned building while he loses himself in a luxury he hasn’t had in -- how long has it been? When was the last time he even thought about relieving himself, let alone had the time? With Genji, he thinks, he _knows_ because it’s the last night they spend together before he disappears from McCree’s life forever. He doesn’t focus on the quiet bitterness he knows he can’t blame Genji for, _won’t_ blame him for rather, and he knows it isn’t really the time for focusing on that other, sweeter memory but his body betrays him, cock stirring beneath the hand settled at his crotch. He chuckles again, lifts his gloved hand up to swipe at the bloody nose he’s sporting, careful not to irritate the bruising swell forming on his cheek.

If anything, McCree thinks as he goes to unbuckle the belt, he deserves nothing less than this pathetic display, holed up in a sorry excuse for a hiding place using a years old memory to get himself off. He tilts the hat back and moves his prosthetic to lift away his serape before an idea hits him, dumbstruck and bloodied face staring back at him in the dirty reflection of his metal hand. Metal hand.

Metal, with the rough touch of silicone on slender, skillful fingers, deft and knowing. McCree bites his lip, dipping his prosthetic beneath his trousers to pull out his cock, closes his eyes and for a moment he has his luxuries.

He has his room, door locked and floor littered with clothes he’ll need to pick up eventually, but for now they dance around the small piles, Genji a little more graceful than McCree. He gets his shirt off quickly as Genji sits himself on the edge of the bed, already working at his pants and the man above him chuckles. Eyes, luminescent and red, flash up at him in question and McCree looms over him, straddles his lap and gently pushes him down onto the mess of unkempt covers and pillows. Genji lets him, keens his head back to show off his neck so McCree can latch onto the soft silicone that winds its way up his neck like tendons. All the while, Genji’s hands never stop, shuffling and pulling until the chaps and boxers are out of the way and he wraps cool, slender fingers around his cock. McCree hums against the metal along the other’s jawline, nipping at the sharp jut of metal there as Genji slowly works him to full hardness.

Those hands are impossible to mimic. Genji’s fingers are slimmer, no less deadly, but also graceful. He’s a quick learner from the first time they’d done this in the back storage room after a hard session of training to now, now where Genji seems to know him better than McCree does. He thumbs around the crown, pulling back on the foreskin, up again and squeezing, letting the tip drool a little. McCree hums appreciatively at the metal plate where Genji’s ear would be, working his teeth around a cord with care. He moves his own hands to roam around Genji’s softer bits, but he’s swatted away as if the memory knows this isn’t about Genji, it’s about him. McCree pulls his head up, thick red wire between his teeth like some kind of rose as he smirks, waggles his eyebrows and Genji’s eyes crinkle at the telltale sign of a grin beneath.

Those impossible hands, deft and knowing and skillful and _fuck_ if he doesn’t miss them, miss _him_ , misses the way Genji seemingly knows him inside and out and how to work him over just right and nothing, nothing can replace it. Not a half baked memory or McCree’s thicker, lesser prosthetic hand working himself over with his bottom lip between his teeth near bleeding, fast and rough and no where near as graceful as he’d like. He tries to do it justice, squeezing the base of his fat cock, short quick strokes that put him on edge before Genji switches for long, languid ones, circling the ruddy red tip with his forefinger, smiling all the while beneath his mask at the sight or maybe the way McCree is breathing his name like a prayer beside him, hips desperate and fidgety. The finger comes away sticky, a string of pre-cum snapping between as he looks McCree right in his eyes and takes mercy. He comes with a shudder that starts up the base of his spine, hips rabbit jerking into the tightness of Genji’s hand, a muffled cry into Genji’s shoulder.

Nights like these are seldom long, the adrenaline high lasting enough for a quick jerk before it wears off and McCree is nuzzling his face into the crook of Genji’s neck, breathing hard and a soft whisper of thank you on his lips mouthing against the hard plating as if the words mean something else.

Except it’s McCree crying out into the empty space of some abode, filthy and crumbling with blood beading at his bottom lip and his prosthetic choked around his own dick, back bowed away from the wall before slumping down in the corner. It’s mildly satisfying, but it’ll do. A bone tiredness takes over, the light spasms in his thighs fading to nothing but a pleasant tingle. He wipes his hands on his pants, tucks himself away with little fanfare and doesn’t bother to clean himself up beyond that. Chuckling, a sad little smile playing upon his lips, McCree lifts a hand up to pull the hat back down over his eyes.

“Pathetic,” he says almost like a joke to himself, voice tired and a little wet.

Maybe it isn’t these impossible hands that he misses so much, but Genji himself and the little nuances they shared. The low, grainy chuckle he gives off when McCree makes a particularly pleased sound, begs for a little more. The downright filthy dirty talk Genji mutters besides his ear and the quiet encouragement afterwards when he’s milking McCree through an orgasm that has him nearly shaking against him, coos pretty words with an equally pretty voice. The soothing dance of fingers that draw meaningless shapes along his back, another quiet laugh when McCree asks him to stay. He does, when asked, and McCree misses the mornings waking up to a messy mop of black hair and the rare sight of Genji relaxed against him. He misses the almost unfair match up in training where he always ends up on his back, Genji above him with a self satisfying little smirk pulling at his eyes and a smarmy comment only meant for his ears. He misses Genji’s hands, on him, around him, held in McCree’s own.

He misses Genji.

It’s that thought that stays with him as he lies there, leaning against the corner wall, watching the amber sun fade away through the smudgy window to allow nightfall when McCree will dare to sleep for a rough few hours, wakes to nothing but this abode, filthy and crumbling and without Genji, and goes off again into the night, on the run, day in and day out.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments & kudos are appreciated ♥ feel free to hit me up on madamerioulette@tumblr


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